Friday, December 07, 2007

For those who don't know me, since I've been married I have this really crazy habit of avoidance. When I'm stressed and don't want to deal, I clean.

Last night at 12:15 am, I was up scrubbing the bathroom sinks.

I am circling this novel revision and starting to lose control. It's a simple correction that's needed: hire an editor. I just can't help but hold to a very stupid idea that (duh) because I'm an editor, I can self-edit successfully.

Perhaps I will someday. But now, this is the same paralyzing spot I've been in twice before (I recognize the panic) and that I'm up late cleaning clinches it.

I sent an email off to an editor this morning asking for help.

I am now sitting here waiting to feel different, putting on my Tiger Woods anti-resistance mindset, and making faces into my computer monitor.

I'm even more scared, hyper scared, but still completely freaked. This is going pro, as our own Steven Pressfield talks about in War of Art. Not that I mean I'm better or up a level, but my outlook must be: I am a pro.

A pro can take criticism, can fail and still try again, and won't ever give up.

So there's my "outing": I am a pro. I have contacted an editor. I have confessed my freakout to my writing buddy. I am not going to sit in this same pothole again.

In honor of this occasion, I am playing (very loudly) the song by the All-American Rejects (see below).